by Peter James
He quickly checked Facebook and Twitter on his computer, but there was nothing of particular interest, then hurried downstairs.
‘So what do you think?’ Imogen asked as he entered the kitchen, with its panoramic view across the lights of the built-up valley of Patcham.
‘I’m sorry, I was just about to come when you called first, then I saw a bit that I thought looked interesting – but wasn’t.’
He sat down at the small wooden table, where she had set out the chicken satay and green fish curry, and a tomato salad. ‘Smells wonderful!’ he said. ‘And, boy, do I need a drink.’ He opened the fridge and took out a lager.
‘Wish I could join you in that!’ She raised her glass of mineral water. Beside her on the table was a pile of bills.
‘You can still have the occasional glass.’
‘I’m being good – I’ll make up for it after Caligula’s born.’
He said nothing; he had no doubt about that whatsoever.
When her recent three-month scan had shown it was a boy, they’d jokingly nicknamed the baby after the cruel Roman emperor, after the hellish morning sickness Imogen had been through. And besides, Imogen had said, she was not – sooooo not – going to become one of those gooey mums that they both detested. So the name had stuck.
When they’d first got married, they’d both decided that they didn’t want children, certainly not for a while anyway. Most of their close friends didn’t want children either and, bar one couple, had still not had any. After his return from Afghanistan, Ross’s views on having children had hardened. He was genuinely worried about the state of the world and unsure what future there might be for a child. Added to that was his growing realization that he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Imogen. A woman he could never fully forgive or ever trust completely again. Having a child would bring a major complication.
Those first months after he had come home he’d needed Imogen and she had been terrific – probably through guilt. His nerves were in tatters from his experience in the war zone, he barely slept, and when he did he had constant nightmares. She took care of him, did everything she possibly could to make up for what she had done and to help him mend. But subsequently, in the past few years, he’d felt a void growing between them. Then she fell pregnant.
It was a sign of how little he trusted his wife that he found himself sceptical when she told him she hadn’t forgotten to take the pill. He took the view that she’d done it deliberately, perhaps worrying about her biological clock ticking or perhaps in a last-ditch effort to save their marriage. Although they barely made love at all these days, maybe once a month, if that.
Imogen raised her mineral water. ‘Cheers,’ she said.
They clinked glasses, staring into each other’s eyes – something Imogen always insisted on. Then raising her glass again, she said, ‘And here’s to saving the world!’
‘I’m not entirely convinced that if God wanted to save mankind He’d have chosen an elderly, retired history of art professor to do it.’
‘He chose a humble carpenter’s son last time.’
Ross smiled.
‘And this time He’s also chosen you to help make it happen. You may not be a humble carpenter’s son, but you seem to care as little about money as Jesus did.’ She nodded at the bills.
‘Some nasty ones?’
‘Every month we get nasty bills, Ross. You seem to think I’m a magician at making them go away. I’m not, I’m just very good at juggling them all around with our credit cards. You need a couple of lucrative jobs – and we’ve got to build up a cash reserve for when I have to stop working to have the baby.’
‘Yep, well I think this story has real possibilities.’
‘Ross Hunter, the man who has to save the world!’
‘It’s a big ask.’
‘But my husband is up to it?’
‘Your husband is up to it.’ He debated whether to tell her what Cook had told him about his brother. But he held back. He’d told her before about his strange experience at the moment of Ricky’s death, and she had been quite sceptical about it, which had surprised him, considering the traditional religious upbringing she’d had. Or perhaps it was precisely because of that.
‘And how is my husband getting on with the manuscript that will help him save the world by bringing it back from the brink?’
‘I’m afraid he is fifty-three pages in, out of one thousand, two hundred and forty-seven, and losing the will to live.’
‘Persevere, brave soldier!’
‘Huh.’ He drank some more of his beer. ‘Perhaps you should read it – you’re the one who calls yourself a Christian.’
‘I’m hardly a great example of a believer. But if you knew your Bible at all, you’d know God’s views on mediums. And about not trusting anything that comes via them.’
‘And can you trust anything in the Bible?’
Imogen gave him a reproachful look.
‘Sorry. I’m finding this whole thing very strange.’
‘Is it opening up your mind or opening up old wounds?’
‘Ricky?’
She nodded.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to make of it. I – I have an open mind, you know that. The last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about God, religion, googling some stuff – I’ve watched a couple of debates between Dawkins and believers. I guess there’s one thing that makes me feel sorry for God, if He is real.’
‘Which is?’
‘How can He ever win? You have the vicar praying to Him for sunshine so that the village fete won’t be a washout. At the same time you have the farmer praying for rain so his crops don’t die. How does God decide?’
‘He has to make decisions based on the greater need.’
‘Really? So an eight-year-old girl is dying from a brain tumour. Who has the greater need – the little girl who wants to stay alive? Her desperate parents who want her to stay alive? Or the tumour that wants to destroy her? Was the tumour put there by Satan for fun? Or by God for a purpose?’
‘You can’t look at it that way, darling.’
‘I just did. It’s the question everyone asks, that how come if God really exists, He allows suffering.’
‘You want to get into a long theological debate?’
He grinned and shook his head. ‘Nope, I’ve got a book to read. One so turgid it makes the instruction manual for my car read like a Jack Reacher thriller. The book that will save mankind or the manuscript from Hell?’
‘If it was channelled through a medium, probably the latter. Are you still going to Bristol tomorrow for the radio interview?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you go by train, instead of driving? It’ll give you a few hours to read.’
‘I want to swing by Chalice Well on the way back – I’ll need the car for that.’
‘Take a train there, which will give you some useful time, and rent a car to come back in. The paper’s paying for your travel costs, isn’t it?’
‘Good thinking, I’ll do that. Too bad God’s man didn’t give it to Harry Cook as an audio file – I could have listened to it in the car.’
She shook her head. ‘Too dangerous. Sounds like it would send you to sleep at the wheel!’
He grinned. ‘Yep.’
‘I’ve had to turn down a dream assignment, thanks to Caligula,’ she said.
‘What was it?’
‘A week’s diving holiday in the Maldives for the two of us. I just had to write a piece for a new online travel magazine for it. Business Class flights, the lot.’
One of their mutual interests was scuba diving and they both held PADI certificates. They’d enjoyed several diving holidays abroad. There wouldn’t be another for some while, he thought ruefully, thanks to the baby.
‘Shame. We’ll make sure the little bugger knows one day what he made us miss!’
She grinned and held up her phone. ‘Look, one hundred and nine hits on Instagram.’ She ha
nded it to him and he could see the Instagram picture of Monty sitting beside him, with a resigned look on his face, whilst he sat in his chair, reading. The caption read: Montmorency waits patiently for his master to finish reading the manuscript, so he can be taken for his walk.
‘Love it!’ he replied.
After their meal, and after downing half a bottle of very acceptable and quite potent Australian Shiraz, on top of his beer, Ross went back up to his office, clutching the bottle and his glass. He sat down in his armchair, charged his glass and resumed reading. There was one Biblical passage after another.
But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.
After half an hour, Ross laid the manuscript on the floor, to have a break, the tiny writing and annotations doing his head in, went over to his desk and logged on to Twitter. He typed out:
Anyone got views on what they think would constitute absolute proof of #GodsExistence #DoesGodExist
He sent the tweet, opened Facebook and repeated the message, posting that too. Then he returned to the manuscript and continued to plough on through it. He yawned, tired, finding it increasingly hard to concentrate. Then he yawned again. His eyes closed.
13
Tuesday, 21 February
A loud thud woke Ross from a disturbing dream, in which demons in flowing white robes were hurtling like human jet planes towards him, yelling in fury. He sat up with a start, blinking, disorientated, momentarily unsure where he was. He saw the light of the anglepoise lamp beside him. Pages of Cook’s manuscript strewn on the floor.
Shit. What time is it?
He looked at his watch and was horrified to see it was 2.20 a.m. He’d fallen asleep in his chair.
Shit, shit, shit!
He had an early start for Bristol this morning. He was doing a radio interview at midday on BBC Radio Bristol about the secret, iniquitous influence that political lobbyists had on many of the decisions made in Parliament. It followed an article he had written for the Sunday Times which had caused a lot of controversy – so much that the paper wanted a further piece. He was also contemplating writing a book on the subject, and this interview, by a respected radio presenter, could help him with the ammunition he needed to secure a publishing deal for it. He needed to be on top form. Bristol was nearly 170 miles away. He had to take a train to Victoria and then change. A good three hours of reading time. If he speed-read he might, with luck, get through a few hundred pages of Cook’s manuscript. If he could bear it.
He was feeling less and less sure it was worth dedicating any more time to Dr Harry Cook.
Leaving everything as it was, he switched the light off, crept into the bedroom, undressed and brushed his teeth, and slipped into bed next to Imogen, who was fast asleep.
Some nights he took a pill to help him sleep, but it was too late for that; taking one now would leave him drowsy all morning. He lay back against the pillows, thinking back to his meeting earlier with the strange old man.
You and I have to save the world.
From what he had read of it so far, the manuscript was nothing more than the ramblings of a disturbed mind. Bible passages, interspersed with random jottings of thoughts and certain words and phrases underlined. Was he missing something crucial?
Ross had tried – and failed – to read the Bible all the way through in his early teens; religious studies at school had bored him senseless. But nothing, ever, had bored him as much as the manuscript he had spent the evening attempting to read. Eighty-five pages out of over twelve hundred. Would it get any better? He doubted it. But he felt he needed to get to the end, however superficially he speed-read it.
Three hours on the train to Bristol. Three hours of reading.
Reading the manuscript from Hell.
The road to Hell paved with good intentions?
14
Tuesday, 21 February
The orangery was far enough away from the house that Ainsley Bloor and his wife would not be disturbed by the noises of the six caged monkeys, nor their smell.
Inside every cage was a computer terminal connected to a continuous paper feed. The first thing Bloor did every evening when he arrived home and every morning before leaving for his office was to check on his experiment.
So far, after more than three weeks, five of them had not got the hang of this at all, despite the incentives of a treat, automatically dispensed, after a number of keystrokes. They tore up the paper, chewed it and spat it out, and used the keyboards either as toilets or a toy to be flung around the cage.
But one, Boris, in Cage 6, was his shining star. His great white hope!
The CEO of the pharmaceutical giant, Kerr Kluge, in his tracksuit and trainers, ran breathless through the darkness, clutching a sheet of paper. He passed the concrete landing pad and the shadowy hulk of his twin-engined Augusta helicopter, and crossed the croquet lawn. Entering through a side door, he raced along the hallway and upstairs to their bedroom.
‘Look at this!’ he said. ‘Cilla, darling, look, look!’
Startled by his voice, Yeti, their white shih-tzu, jumped off the bed.
It was 6.45 a.m. Cilla had never been an early riser, and he knew that if disturbed before 8 a.m. she’d be in a grump for the rest of the day. But this was worth the grump.
Bloor switched on her bedside light and held a sheet of computer printout in front of her, waiting for her reaction with a triumphant smile.
She blinked then peered at the page. It was filled with rows of letters of the alphabet, interspersed with numbers and symbols.
‘What am I meant to be looking at, exactly, my love?’ she said in her usual sarcastic tone.
‘This!’ He tapped one letter, circled in red pen. ‘I’.
She looked up at him with a frown. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘I.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘At this hour? I don’t think so.’
‘“I”? You’ve woken me to show me this?’
‘You don’t see it, darling, do you?’ he said, impatiently.
‘I see the letter “I”. Sorry, am I being dumb?’
‘You’re not seeing the letter “I” – you’re seeing the word “I”.’
‘The word?’
‘There’s a space either side and it’s capitalized! Don’t you see what that means?’
‘You’ve lost me. Do you want to tell me in English?’
He balled his fists in the air. ‘This is a breakthrough. This is momentous. This is the start of absolute proof that God does not exist!’
She peered at him through sleepy eyes. ‘The letter “I”? Are you sure you haven’t been on the bottle?’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘No, I don’t get it, and would you mind not talking in riddles?’
‘OK – Boris!’
‘Your monkey?’
‘Yes! Boris! Boris wrote it! Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t get it. The letter “I” with a space either side. What exactly am I missing?’
‘It’s a word, darling. An intelligible word! It’s taken him three weeks, but he’s got there! A monkey has typed a word!’
She peered at the sheet again. ‘Do you think he knows what it means?’
‘Does that matter? I can’t believe you are even asking that question! This is the most exciting thing – possibly – ever! A monkey typing a proper word! No one’s ever achieved this before.’
‘Once he’s proved your point and typed the collected works of Shakespeare, in the right order, then I will be impressed.’
‘You are totally missing the point!’
‘Are you sure it’s not you who is missing it?’
‘A friend of the atheist Antony Flew, did this same experiment with a monkey and a typewriter and a perpetua
l paper feed. In twenty-eight days, the monkey typed forty pages of gibberish. There wasn’t one single intelligible word. Not even an “I” surrounded by a space. From doing the maths, he believed the earth would run out of resources before the monkey ever typed anything intelligible, and used this as evidence for the existence of God. He was wrong! Just mark this date down in your diary. The day God’s existence began to be conclusively disproved.’
‘The “I”s have it,’ she said, dismissively, called out to the dog and appeared to be drifting back to sleep.
15
Tuesday, 21 February
‘Thank you, Ross Hunter,’ the BBC presenter, Sally Hughes, said, then leaned in closer to the microphone in the small studio. ‘If you want to read Ross Hunter’s truly fascinating article on political lobbyists, you can find it on the Sunday Times website.’ She read out the link, took a breath, then went straight on. ‘You are tuned to BBC Radio Bristol. It’s coming up to 1 p.m. and Rory Westerman is here with the latest travel news and weather. After the news, we’ll have recipe time with MasterChef winner Charlie Bouvier. I’ll be back at 2 p.m. talking to my next guest, the novelist Val McDermid.’
She reached forward, pressed a switch and the red ON AIR light went off. She smiled at Ross.
‘Was that OK?’ he asked.
‘Great!’ she said.
He sipped the last drop of cold coffee from the mug he’d been given before entering the studio, then picked up his rucksack containing Cook’s manuscript.
‘Are you doing any more interviews locally?’ she asked.
‘No – I’ve organized a rental car as I’m heading back to Sussex via Glastonbury,’ he said. ‘Something I need to check out whilst there’s still daylight.’
‘Glastonbury?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been there before?’
‘A few years ago.’
‘You should take a look at Chalice Well while you’re there. Amazing place – it’s very spiritual.’
‘Did you say Chalice Well?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s so weird you should mention it,’ he replied. ‘It’s actually where I’m going. What do you know about it?’
